Come Back, Sweetheart
by saraleinn
Summary: Effie's experiences in the Capitol during the Rebellion come back to haunt her. Nothing could ever be forgotten, not when you have dealt with all the innocent children who go to the Games, only to never return home. (This is my first fanfic, ever. This was written as a one-shot just to try it out and practise my writing. Please do read and review, I'd much appreciate it!)


She laid the back of her head gently on the pine door. She is awfully calm compared to the frantic man banging against the door that she was leaning against. Her face showed apathy, well stiffened by months of numb mental pain. She felt nothing. Her mind was shut off.

"Effie, open the door. Damn it, sweetheart!"

It was as if she had gone deaf. She stared at a distance through the window, eyes transfixed to the bright full moon, hovering over the oak tree.

By now the banging had decreased in frequency. His voice had become weaker. His throat felt as if he had been screaming for a good 20 minutes.

"Come back to me, sweetheart. Effie, please."

His voice sounded like a sob. She turned her head slightly, her senses stirred slightly by the emotion in his voice. As quickly as her mind processed the emotion, it returned to its dormant state, once again tuning out all outside distractions.

Her mind became acutely aware of her own quick and shallow breathing; her heartbeats were too loud in her ears. Her being was immersed in the past, a different time. She was a different person then; she cared about looks too much. The reflection of her past self quickly faded away in her memories, replaced by a seemingly different person. Suddenly she was in that stranger's body, feeling the tattered clothes that barely covered her body, blood and sweat clumping her hair in a sticky mixture, a strange sensation of pain so horrible, she felt numb within minutes. Her feet were bare, eyes so swollen till they blurred her vision. Her hands were bound; deep indentations etched onto her wrists, indicating the vicious struggle that, nevertheless, failed to free her from the chains. Dried blood mixed with fresh blood. Her head felt like it was made of lead. All she wanted to do was to put her head down on the ground.

She was not in her house anymore.

She was back, in this hell hole.

She looked up to the sound of the creaking door, opening to reveal her captors. Her heart lurched down to the ground. _They're here,_ she thought, _no._

They sneered at her and released a low-pitched growl. One of them spoke as the other moved to unlock her chains from the wall,

"Effie Trinket, I hope you're ready, you have a big big big day!"

The two prison wardens laughed heartily at their own joke. The one who unlocked her chains tugged her roughly by her upper arm, leaving fresh new bruises over the old ones which were just afflicted two days ago.

She swung her body as she walked, seemingly not orientated to time and place. She simply learned to go along with it, and endured the pain that was awaiting her. Her ears picked up a wail, a lady's voice, calling out for her lover, later, the anguished cries of a man who had just witnessed brutal killings over and over, and a few steps later, the soft snivelling of someone who had been drained of all energy. Her ears heard, but they failed to register. To her, these sounds were the daily music that greeted her as she walked on to face yet another day of brutality. Nothing could scare her anymore, or so she thought.

She was forced into a white room, and the same warden who had led her made her sit on a chair, one that resembled a dental chair. The only difference was that it was installed with a stainless steel cuffs on the arm on the chair. She was secured to the chair, her heart hammered in anticipation and fear, though her mind was blank.

"Miss Trinket, thank you for joining us."

She did not need to turn her head to see who it was. The voice belonged to none other than President Snow. His baritone-rich voice that had charmed the hearts of the people of Panem one or two generations ago was unmistakable. He was not here. He was never present. But the sound of his voice sends an involuntary shiver down her back.

The whole room goes pitch dark, and the chair started leaning back, making her face the white ceiling. The ceiling brightened, the intensity of the light piercing her eyes. It abruptly started showing the smiling face of Caesar Flickerman as he introduced a familiar face.

"Yasmine Bronson, ladies and gents! The lovely tribute from District Twelve."

The pain in her head started, humming low at the back of her head, threatening to aggravate as she continued watching. She shut her eyes, unable to stomach the memory of her poor first tribute that she had ever chaperoned.

A strong jolt of electricity surged through her body. She writhed and arched to relieve the discomfort, feeling her heart pump frantically in her ears during that few agonising seconds. She opened her eyes, and found that the electrocution had stopped. He wanted to force her to look. She was not sure which was worse, which she can endure better.

Her eyes glued itself to the ceiling as it cut to the opening of the 60th Hunger Games. The pretty, olive-skinned girl with smiling eyes and a dazzling dress was now in a figure- hugging blouse and tights. Her eyes showing uncertainty and fear, her facial features were locked in a frown as she looked around her. She had suddenly aged ten years. As all the tributes set off with the starting bellows of the trumpet, she sped off towards the array of supplies and weapons, grabbing the bag of her choice, with a pickaxe hanging on the front of her bag.

Again the video cut to another scene. She was scaling the mountain, the tallest one in the Arena. For a moment, Effie's heart swelled with pride for this girl, just as it had all those years ago. Yasmine's confidence was reflected in her climbing. Her every step and grip on the rough structure demonstrated her experience with the hills at her home district. Her hand gripped the top of the mountain, and her head peeked above the edge. To her absolute horror, she was met by the Careers. Effie remembered these Careers. She never thought much about them, until she watched them take away the life of her first tribute.

There were three of them, one had bloody teeth from tearing away the flesh of his recent victim; a hapless young boy from District Ten. They gave her a sinister smile, their face gleaming with inhumane pride as the tribute standing in the middle, a burly bully-like boy from District Two, held his hand out for her to grip onto. Without hesitation, she gripped his hand tightly. Effie shed a tear at her reaction. That was an act that would eventually lead to her demise.

Once she was on her feet at the peak, the tributes wasted no time pushing her to the ground, the middle tribute mindlessly pounding at her stomach with a spiked mace, while she screamed and cried in agonising pain. The one with the bloody teeth sunk his teeth into her thighs, pulling off her flesh as she writhed and kicked about, all in vain effort. The third tribute poured concentrated acid on her face, some of the putrid compound spilling into her mouth and choking her, drowning out her calls for help.

The tributes spent a mere five minutes at their morbid tasks before she stopped struggling. She had left this world. Effie held her breath as the camera zoomed onto her lifeless body, the immense grief she felt at that time threatening to consume her once again. Yasmine Bronson was covered in blood, her flesh strewn about, and her intestines mauled to pieces. Her face, her beautiful face was devoid of hair and eyes. Her ears curled and deformed after the acid had melted it away. Effie could not bear to watch, once again she shut her eyes forcefully, trying not to allow the image of her dead tribute seared into her brain.

The pain was unbearable, it seared through her nerves to travel all over her body. She pulled against cuffs holding her wrists tightly, trying to find a position that would relieve her discomfort. She knew it was hopeless. The voltage that was initially administered to her was lower, that only meant that every time she closed her eyes, the voltage would be increased.

"No, no, why did you do this, please..."

She tried to force her voice out, to shout to whomever that was listening to her. Her voice, instead, came out like a whisper. She was unaware that she had been screaming throughout the time she watched Yasmine die. Her vocal cords were exhausted and refused to work in her favour.

"No more."

"More, Miss Trinket?"

"No, President, please, stop."

"You will tell me what the rebels are up to, and give me all their names and locations."

"No."

"Very well, Miss Trinket. It was you who brought it upon yourself."

His dark laugh echoed off the walls. She was powerless to stop it, she knew it. He would go on until she breaks.

She cried.

She had no tears left but she cried as she mourned for Yasmine, and for the other tributes she had chaperoned, and eventually never made it back to the arms of their families. She wept bitterly, blaming herself for their deaths. She kept every one of them in her heart, despite her shallow and optimistic disposition that she wore as her personality every year.

She shook; she felt her shoulders shaking violently. A distant voice called out to her. Harsh, anxious, worried. Her mind was starting to pick up the emotions from a familiar voice. The ceiling faded to darkness. Night? Was it night time?

"Effie, sweetheart. Come on, wake up, it's not real. What you see, it ain't real. You're safe, you're not in prison. Oh Effie..."

There it is again, that sob. Effie's eyes were not staring at a white ceiling anymore. She regained her focus, felt her cheeks and ears wet with tears, her pounding heart gradually steadying itself. Her body lay sideways against the door of their room.

Her head was still heavy, and she wanted to stroke his face, she could see the fear in his glassy eyes. She steadied her breathing and simply just said, "Haymitch."

"Yes. I'm here. Ain't nothin' can hurt you."

Her hand was clutched in his large, calloused hands. He held her hand tenderly and kissed her knuckles, his lips ghosting over her skin. Her breath deepened and slowed down. She felt a warm teardrop on the back of her hand. Haymitch stared at her, his mouth agape and his eyes wide as he kept careful observation of her face.

She knew it. This was the worst episode she had. Nothing could break Haymitch. She knew it had gone too far when she noticed his eyes; they told her everything that she needed to know.


End file.
